


Chipped and Masterful

by twatsworthy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, i wrote this in biology wh oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:36:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twatsworthy/pseuds/twatsworthy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Grantaire feared inexplicitly, intangibly, and yet absolutely, that those eyes would dance away before he could capture them in chipped and masterful colours that could be cherished forever."</p><p>Or, Grantaire paints Enjolras and loves him more than my stumbling prose and attempted intellectualism could ever begin to surmise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chipped and Masterful

Grantaire found, after many vapid and self-absorbed moments spent in trembling admiration of the cataclysm splayed before him as the ground dust will give itself completely to the whirlwind, that his nimble artist's fingers could breathe the enlightenment of aristocracy into his otherworldly form as easily as they could make winter breezes dance in the crevices of birch trees or fictitious fingers scrape illicitly across uncharted skin. He was born for this; a master of oil on wax, and he alone could show the supernova ignited by the catching ash of liberty inside Enjolras. If he concentrated hard enough, blood of royal blue may flow from mind to fingers to brush to the coy, smirking alignment of colours forming a cacophony of libertine rage and the solemnity of his subject's affectation.

Eyes that had for a thousand nights, wetted by the melancholy of his bottled lips, danced stanzas of poetry into the sky under the firmament of the Earth, bending into Grantaire's solidarity and attaching itself forthwith, now looked with an alien warmth and sung of unsung kindness. It was tainted by fear; Grantaire feared inexplicity, intangibly, and yet absolutely, that those eyes would dance away before he could capture them in chipped and masterful colours that could be cherished forever. He may never have Enjolras' acceptance again.

Enjolras talked in feverish red about a great disillusion whilst Grantaire lit his skin on fire, feeling all the while that even a bourgeoisie recreation of his championship of aesthetics could never do justice to the flesh and bone and mighty flames that vehemently screeched and sputtered in the air, unrelenting flights of eloquence that not even the greatest of painters with the finest of paints could reproduce. The words meant nothing; words alone carried no weight until coupled with the fiece, yet venerable, disposition of Enjolras.

"You're moralistic," Grantaire told him.

He laughed, a copper-coloured cry of mirth. "And you're a nihilist."

"You're pious."

"You're cynical."

And Grantaire created an angel, the rearing Angel of Liberty immortalized in paint and canvas, a travesty in his beauty. Had the angel been ugly, he would have been mocked, wings crushed under the bloodied fists of the people he loved so wholly. Grantaire thanked egotism for Enjolras' beauty.

Looking at the intellectual smirk of the subject of his painting replicated exactly on the canvas, he thought about telling him that a man cannot conquer a landslide, and the falling rocks of the mountain, capering about and masquerading pacifism, would smite him without a moment's thought, leaving nothing but a painting.

He kissed him instead, a thousand times over, and came to know the angel's annexes and alcoves and orifices as one comes to know one's home, so absolutely and with unsparing certainty. That night, he lay in contentment in their bed, tracing his confession into the polished ribcage that he had long since built his roots into. His trembling fingers whispered that the boy deserved to live longer than a thousand paintings.

In the morning, a mind trained in cynicism kissed into Enjolras' mouth that even the word of Heaven's own orator could not move a mountain if the mountain was obstinate enough. Yet the words could not form, for he could not make the angel crumble.

"I love you, Grantaire."

"I love you, too. More than any of the paintings."


End file.
